It started with chest pains. A tightness that made me pause mid-morning, pressing a hand to my heart as if that could make it easier. 

Then came the migraine—persistent and sharp—settling in behind my eyes like it planned to stay. I hoped a bit of rest would help, but by the next morning, I couldn’t pretend anymore.

I was signed off sick and told to stop, properly stop.

I spent the next few days wrapped in blankets, drifting in and out of sleep. My body ached. My head throbbed.

The usual sounds of home—laughter, footsteps, cartoons in the background—felt far away, like they were happening in another house. And in the quiet moments, I found myself remembering.

I was little again. Maybe eight years old. I could see my mommy lying in bed, her face pale, the door half-closed. I’d hover nearby and ask in a soft voice, “Mommy, are you okay?” 

And always, always, she would smile and say yes, getting better. Within a day—maybe two—she’d be back on her feet, folding laundry, cooking dinner, brushing my hair like nothing had ever been wrong. I thought she had a kind of magic, or superpower.

I believed it, completely. That mommies had this secret ability to heal themselves overnight. That they didn’t stay unwell the way everyone else did.

And now here I was. The mommy. Unwell and worn out, lying in bed while life continued just beyond the door. My eldest would tiptoe in and look at me with those wide, thoughtful eyes.

“Mommy, are you still sick?”

He’d ask gently, sometimes bringing me a glass of water, sometimes just checking I was still there. 

My youngest—only one—didn’t speak, but I could feel his little presence searching for me. His normal world felt off, and somehow he knew I was the missing piece.

Daddy was amazing—holding the fort, keeping things going. But still, they wanted mommy. Even when I couldn’t move far, even when I didn’t feel like myself, I could feel their need for me.

And in that moment, I understood what I hadn’t as a child: my mommy didn’t have a superpower. She had strength. She had commitment. She had us. 

And that’s why she got up before she was ready, why she pushed through when her body was still begging her to rest.

By day three, I started to get up. Slowly. Bit by bit. Sitting and playing cars for ten minutes. Reading a short story at bedtime. I still didn’t feel great, but I didn’t need to be at full strength to show up. I just needed to be there.

To my mommy, thank you for showing me what it means to be strong. For giving me the kind of love that made me feel safe, even when you had nothing left to give.

And to my boys—thank you for being my reason. For reminding me what I’m made of. This week, I didn’t bounce back because I was better. I bounced back because of you.

tracy-lynn.ruiters@inl.co.za

Weekend Argus 

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